


Lightning

by this_too_shall_pass



Series: they find each other in the light [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: !!just a sandbag but still!!, !!punching!!, Fluff, Gen, Hurt Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, M/M, Prinxiety - Freeform, Roman is a sweetheart, Trans Male Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Trans Male Character, Virgil needs to cry, not xplicit tho, relationship/character study ig??, virgil has anger problems but hes controlling it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-10 19:31:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18414413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_too_shall_pass/pseuds/this_too_shall_pass
Summary: Virgil has his own ways of working out his emotions, and Roman is very in love.





	Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhh not much to say except virgil is absolutely being projected onto

When Roman looks at Virgil, he sees lightning in a bottle, a coiled spring, an energy just barely contained by the lanky man’s frame. It pours out of him, a waterfall through a sink faucet, pressure building until he snaps when the world around him breaks the bottle, releases the spring, unleashes the power behind his mismatched eyes.

It usually manifests itself in a jittery energy, a compulsive need to tap his fingers on every surface, a jiggling leg, a staccato voice that pitches up when he’s stressed, a constant motion, a constant vibration, a constant output that Roman knows is nothing compared to the frenetic chaos behind his purple-haired boyfriend’s forehead. Virgil is wild, an ancient spark in his eyes with the potential to start a fire that could burn Roman’s whole world if Virgil’s ire was taken out on him. 

It never is though.

Why would it be?

Instead, when the spark is kindled, he grabs his boxing tape from under their bed and heads to the seedy twenty-four-hour gym a block down from his and Roman’s apartment and punches the leaking sandbags until his handwraps peel and his bangs stick to his forehead, slick with sweat. Sometimes Roman will go with him, watch Virgil’s biceps go taut as he hits the sandbag with punches tinted with anger, at himself and the world and the pain, the pain that follows him like a ghost, never too far from his mind. All too often, he cries, and when he finishes crying and punching and expelling the energy that overflows out of him like an ocean from an already cracked wine glass, Roman holds him and unwraps his hands, running his thumbs over his bruised and red knuckles, his fingers that Roman so desperately wants to put a ring on pruned from Virgil’s sweat, and when he peels the final piece of tape off he kisses Virgil’s hand and lets him lean on his shoulder as they leave, the glare of the middle-aged desk attendant burning their backs.

Virgil is a storm, a tornado of thoughts and energy kept in check only by his flawed physical form, and Roman wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
